Married to My Work
by Destined for Johnlock
Summary: The past year of John Watson's life since Sherlock's return, and the surprise Sherlock has for him. One-shot. Based off of the popular post on tumblr with the picture. I'm shit with links. Story's under my tumblr url on the post, but here it is for those who can't find it.


It had been four years since the fall.

Four years since John Watson's heart shattered.

Four years since his world collapsed into itself.

Three and a half years since he resumed a relatively normal life.

Three years since he tried dating again.

Two years since he gave that up.

One and a half years since he finally slipped loose from the "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" activism.

One and a quarter years since he and the rest of the world stopped paying attention to "Watson's Warriors."

And finally, one year since _his_ return.

Yes, John Watson remembered the last four years, thought about them often, and still couldn't imagine getting over the reeling loss of his friend and his sudden reappearance. Neither pretended nothing happened, though Sherlock was hesitant to revel any information he deemed too detailed and confidential. It took a couple of months to ensure that the web was indeed destroyed. After confirmation, Sherlock first told John what he had done over dinner, explaining his travels and the tactics used to infiltrate and take down major sectors of the web. All of it was fascinating. John's food was cold before he even thought to eat. Sherlock, of course, didn't have any. He was too busy talking. John was too busy listening, taking in the sight of his best friend, essentially back from the dead, grinning like a fool (which Sherlock pointed out a few times and John apologized for. He wasn't sorry, though).

So they boxed it up and took it with them instead.

A month later, John had had a bit much to drink at a pub with Greg and came home late, tripping over his own feet when he entered the door. Sherlock looked up from his experiment and checked to make sure he didn't fall, offering some sarcastic comment along the lines of, "enjoy yourself tonight?"

"'F'course," came the slurred response. John sat in his chair and looked across at Sherlock's. The memories associated with the three years he was alone came bubbling up to the surface, and he was suddenly _angry_. With an annoyed huff, he got up and walked into the kitchen to make tea, his eyes leaving Sherlock only long enough to focus on what he was doing. "Wha'are you workin' on?"

"Case work." Sherlock adjusted the knob on the microscope.

"Of course"

"It's quite important."

"So am I." It was almost a childish thing to say, but after three years of lonely, John needed one night of company.

Sherlock looked up from his work, his brow cocked up and his expression quizzical. "Yes, you are, but this-"

"I love you, Sherlock."

That night prompted one of many, many nights spent together. They had established a relationship at that point, telling only close friends and family. Well, John's family. Mycroft was the last to know anything for once. Sherlock made sure to keep it from him so as not to sit through the old, "he misses you, he needs you, when will you be back?" talks. Only they'd probably go something like, "All this time, and you still left? It really was love, then. Pity, three years have been wasted, though your efforts are commendable. I suppose it was necessary. But _poor John_. Didn't think he'd manage as well as he did." That was the last thing Sherlock needed from him.

Months later, just eleven after his return, Sherlock had spent several weeks with minimal communication, immersing himself in his work. John took offense, although he felt a bit silly doing so, and confronted him after Sherlock examined the scene again. The air was cold and the sky was dark, an overcast of clouds blocking whatever light the night could have provided. City lights were dim and there was a bit of fog hanging in the air. Sherlock gave Lestrade an evaluation and started walking away without so much as acknowledging John. He just assumed John would follow.

John did, of course, but not without some fire in his step. He'd confront him once and for all, damnit.

"Sherlock, what's going on? You've hardly spoken for weeks."

Sherlock didn't slow down. "I did warn you of that when we first met."

"You said days, then."

"Yes, well, seems this case has me a bit busy."

"And you don't think I'm busy?"

Sherlock turned on his heel and John just about ran into him. They were close, their breaths mingling in the chilled air, and Sherlock stared down at John with a hard look. "I'm well aware of your schedule."

"Right, and I make time for you."

"I do that, too."

"No, Sherlock, not like you need to."

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat. Truth was, he had been contemplating something for the past few weeks, something he couldn't tell anyone about. There wasn't a right moment, he realized. It just had to happen on its own, as it saw fit. Sherlock was at the whim of an emotion, one he would only reserve for John.

"You know I'm married to my work."

John sighed, rolling his eyes. "Yes, I've been informed. Several times, actually."

Sherlock's lips pulled up into a small smile. "And now you're part of my work."

From the side, Lestrade was calling out to them about a question he had. They both ignored it. John's brows furrowed together, trying to make sense of what he heard. Four years later and there he was, standing in front of this impossible man whom he had come to love. Was Sherlock Holmes really asking him-

"Was that too subtle?"

John blinked once, thinking up an appropriate response. He would have called it corny, but that would just spark a "that was clever," "that's debatable" back and forth argument. "No, no not at all," John replied, a slow grin forming.

Sherlock still wasn't convinced. "So what does tha-"

"Shut up," John replied, grabbing the front of Sherlock's coat and pulling him in for a kiss. It was heated at first, and slowly calmed to gentler caresses. Sherlock's arms wound around John's back, and John's wrapped around Sherlock's neck. They stood that way for a while with Anderson making some hideous remark and Lestrade telling him to piss off halfway through it. Neither cared what other people thought. They were completely and totally and blissfully lost to the world around them, for with each other they were found. They had found love, found _home_.

_Home_. A truer word wouldn't ever define what they had in each other


End file.
